


Your child hates you.

by orphan_account



Series: Let's never be fcuking honest. [1]
Category: Homestuck, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Adoption, Family Feels, Gen, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, One Shot, Parent-Child Relationship, Teenage Rebellion, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The week he turns thirteen, he tells you he hates you.<br/>The week after that, he agrees with himself.<br/>But it isn't until you find out he's had sex, unprotected, to a stranger, to an adult, that you admit you need help.<br/>He's a kid and he's dangerous.<br/>He's a kid and he's angry at everything.<br/>He's a kid and <i>you didn't give birth to him.</i></p>
<p> <b>Now with illustrations; soft, non explicit. </b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Your child hates you.

## Your child hates you.

 

The week he turns thirteen, he says:  i hate you 

Carlos has a very practical way of dealing with these types of problems. First: everybody makes a list of issues; then, things to change or desired outcomes; finally, methods to achieve these outcomes.

 

But Dave only laughs, and goes out for a smoke.

And I sit, with clenched fists and laboured breathing. Carlos fidgets and runs through multiplication tables, until each number steals a particular emotion: 73 is fear of losing our son, 129 000 is his distance from me.

So I think about cigarettes:

soft,

sweet smoke that curls between your nostrils; strangers bedsheets, musty, warm; the extra strong toothpaste, spearmint, burning; rain; the girl with the coat; mass marketing, sponsors: sport-games, developing countries health systems; corruption; warning labels; _nothing's wrong_ ; addiction; comfort; yearning; please, _need._ There are quicker ways to die though, my friend said once, struggling: self-harm, addiction.

Of course we banned, _always banned in the unwritten,_ cigarettes and drugs from the house.  But there are bigger axes, quicker ways to fall. At least if he smokes here he is still _here_ : safe, not gone.

The alcohol, in comparison, is a game we play with live body parts.

 

Carlos brings up the adult,

because he understands calm detachment and can look at a person (our son) and present all possible scenarios:

(Dave, do you understand what statutory rape is?

Would you like speak to someone who isn't us? Dave,

your sexuality is neat and precious and you should choose exactly what, and when, and how, to use your body,

and that is brilliant!

But we are concerned because right now we don't think you are emotionally or physically ready to make those decisions, especially with such a significant age and difference in experience. Dave,

did you feel pressured?

Are you all right? Is there anything we can do, or say, or explain, that will make this easier? Dave?)

Right now I can only understand the colour of my kitchen wall, the skin that curves around the knuckles on my fingers, and the way the light looks with my eyes shut. I cannot understand the gruffness as Dave says, yeah he fucked me over and if I see him again i'll probably smash his head against the side walk

but I don't say anything. I don't want to admit that my son is, for this second, a stranger.

I don't want to admit the part of me, blood soaked and utilitarian, that agrees with him.

In the end, it doesn't matter what I admit, or don't; it's not like the emotions aren't already splattered on my face.

* * *

When Dave was six and new and red he told me we were a family of wizards, in his sleep, that flew on watermelon coloured skateboards and ate clouds with trolls, and

he loved us  _more than anything._ When I say I'd do _anything_ for my son, I am quite specific about what that means:

I would kill for him, at least in the abstract, it always seems such a clear cut and immediate answer; he and Carlos are worth more than anything, everything else _is_ the anything _._ I would protect his life if it meant ripping up every weed, tree and flower by hand for as far as the eye could see. I would throw my body down and act as human shield just to keep his heart going, a little longer. I would die, again, again, again and I would live, which is also the worst thing, sometimes, if it meant I could protect him. ('Protect' him? every time I say it, I feel the façade: I can't; I am too late; there never was a time, or possibly a time, that I, or anyone, could protect him from everything. Life is not about protection; learning to be a parent is also learning what you can't change.)  

It's quite easy to throw your life down for the big stuff, the showers of glitter, the glory, the blood, but

of the many hypothetical lives I would die for my son, watching him kick another man's head in is a limit I cannot stomach.

So while Carlos combines (564: Confusion and immediate recoil when faced with the (seemingly destructive) sexuality of a young person under our protection) divided by (8: Respect for Dave's knowledge and ability to cope with issues and personal hardships far beyond our experience.) I consult my own inner comforts: he chooses maths; I play my radio show, only this time in the privacy of my own head. 

* * *

_**Okay listeners,** everybody be kind and listen up!_ We've got a dad here: first time dad, teenage son with a difficult childhood: lack of secure familial bonds, unsafe home environments, some issues with trust and physical violence. His son is not very happy at the moment, I won't go into it into detail but perhaps we could ask for some stories and then add more as we go, do I have anyone on the line?

Morena dear Cecil!

_Oh hi Leda, everyone meet Leda Wahapa, we are heartfriends from the parent teacher night at Dave's school! Take it away Leda, who brings you to our fine radio station?_

I'd love to talk about my little ocean, who Cecil and Dave both know from school, but she's so _sweetdamn-ontoit_ \- not like me at that age - the main problems for  Ralphie Te are mobility stuff, and that's the rest of her environment we are trying to correct, not her. So I'll talk about my Whaea and my whaea whakaangi, is that okay Cecil? 

_(Furious nodding; she understands.)_

So, I had Robin and my step mum, Anahere, from age three. Whaea Robin was young when she had me; I don't remember my blood parents being together, but they are friends - I am so grateful for the work they put into that, other parts of my whanau are much more painful and disjointed. 

Anyway, Anahere and I did bicker, but not like my  dad: he was the authority; she was someone I could yell at and slam the door in her face.  But after leaving home (alone at winter; trying to move flats without a car or a license; forms and heartbreak over housing; bureaucracy, fear and breakups; being hungry) we could actually talk.

She was a real person, with a job, struggles and stories. I liked her more when I didn't have to live with her.

I felt both selfish and relieved when I actually realised that, and could talk to her about it. Heh. Anyway Cecil, give my love to Carlos, and  Dave ...If, you know. 

_I know, thanks Leda, all the hugs to Ralph and Ari too. Have a good morning._

**~**

Hey Cecil this is Samson. I just want to say I was adopted too, but I didn't know my  birth mother till I was twenty and legal. *My  'dad' ignores my existence; nothing to say on that front.* She's really cool, but the agency was terrible. They handed over my contact details to people I had never even met without even asking me. I was emotionally floored and completely overwhelmed. It did work out, but it was so hard, even when I was an adult. I was so angry.

When I met her I understood a lot more, *the pressure; her age; the lack of support; how much she wanted to be some part of my family now*  Yeah, I have nothing but love and respect for her, but the system could have handled it better, there are a lot of different types of family you know? And it takes goddamn time.

**~**

bless you this morning, ah. I looked after a blue eyed blonde angel from the time she came like an unexpected present from my womb, to the time she left home: early, too young, too angry. I like to think I look after her a little bit now with the wisdom I taught her, but I know I also imparted my rage and the way I look down on people, she can be so arrogant and hateful now, she can be so like me. I love her, but I did a lot of wrong by her, I think.

**~**

Little Tino cries buckets in the night time with terrors. I try to hug him and tell him it will all be okay in the morning. Some mornings it isn't okay. Other mornings we swallow love cookies. Or he tries to take apart the plug socket. I have banned him from plug sockets. He is a terror. I love him. So. Much.

**~**  

My abuelo has cried every night since She died. I try to leave on the hallway light for him, and let the kids jump on the bed in the morning. They make him smile.  

**~**

He is my friend but since his illness we have been living together, two old spinsters with nothing but smiles and snark to give back to the neighbourhood. Some days it is like a black dog, other days a dragon has occupied his rib cage: every breath is taken with effort and a vicious fierceness, every time he gets up it is as if to climb a mountain.

**~**

I bought him tights for his birthday, with sparkles and ribbons on the sock parts.

**~**

I fall in love too quickly, too hard. When  he left, when  she left, when I...I do not think I will [pause] again now. The cost hurts; life gets too hard to breathe. I have my things, my job, often my  mama ; most days it's all right but I'm beginning to forget the smells. I am beginning to get used to waking up alone, going to bed alone, watching TV alone. I don't know how to meet people, any more.   

**~**

After the divorce she got the kids. I get to see them on the weekends. Every time they talk about a new friend, or teacher, or pet, I spend a few seconds on free fall, not knowing who it is. They remember, but I'd almost rather they didn't; I'd almost rather they just thought I was part of their lives, all the time.

**~**

Anderes HATES the dog. I swear if I hadn't of stopped him he'd have tried to sell it to the neighbour for a bike, or even a muffin! 

He just wants to get rid of it. He's always trying to sleep in its basket or steal its food. I mean my _babeprince_ is cute but not to the extent of stealing another family member's food - not once! SEVEN TIMES, and that's only this week! 

We have been _extravagant_ with the hiding places and boundaries...(this is the dog's section of the house; this is the closet where you can perform your terrible experiments; this is completely out of bounds; this is mummy's room; this is my super special cake) but he won't let up. We are going to have to get a mediator in.

I was snuggling him and brushing his fur this morning when the dog came in - whining, miserable, lonely, wet - and I swear, Anderes just radiated smugness and superiority, (MY human; MY floating void of space; MY couch - _fuck off dog!_ ) 

Anyway, we are working on it. I'll let you know if anything goes right. Cya Cecil!

**This conversation** has been _really neat_ listeners! I think we have all learned a lot about our different families so I'm going to tell you about my callers son, lets just for giggles call him Dave.

 

Dave eats toast in the morning with peanut butter and honey spread so thick you'd think his teeth would fall out.

Dave draws cartoons, self-portraits and pictures of apolitical futures. Once, he drew a picture of Carlos standing in some sort of pyjamas with the wind in his hair and a look on his face that said: I am about to save the world. It was on an old page of work notes, diagrams and equations; they floated around Carlos' head like tiny stars.

When Carlos first saw it he went very quiet, and later, I saw him cry for the very first time.

After that he would bring home specimens and interesting pieces of rock and him would give them to Dave with explanations: 'This fossil was tested as approximately 457 million years old, which is unusual for its type, and extremely unlikely, however we are in Night Vale so the existence of prehistoric mammalian life forms is not so unheard of.' and 'I rescued this rock from the building site by Hervey's. I thought you would like it and take very good care of it because the lichen is a similar shade to the colour of your eyes.' and 'This is my friend Elizabeth. She died last week, but she lives on in all her tiny spider offspring. Her youngest mokopuna are called Gerry, Fushia and Catnip. They can live in your room too.' 

Dave gets very angry sometimes, and feels helpless. He told me, when he was ten, that he would throw his head against the wall when his heart hurt too much. He remembers a lot of things that most people say haven't happened. I don't know if they have happened, but they are certainly very real to him.

Dave's room has bluetack like a wall of spitball marks in a constellation across the wallpaper. Indi made him a dreamcatcher that we bought when he first arrived. It still sits in his window but it looks like it's been sleeping rough, all tattered and torn at the edges.

 

When I look his room now, he is lying on the bed.

It is eleven twenty six in the morning. His room smells like smoke. I haven't seen him laugh with a friend all week. His clothes lie in piles on the floor.

He just wants to stare at the wall, or stare at his computer screen.

I think he's met someone far away, at least he seems a little happier while typing.

At least a little happier. 

 

I feel like a stranger standing here.

I feel like I want him to just throw all the badness or fear that he's feeling, throw it at me even, just don't let it eat up inside him, don't let him rot from the inside out.

I feel like I will die if he never loves me again.

I feel like _a child,_ standing next to my child who understands his own life and choices far better than I will ever do.

* * *

 

**Then it is night time;** I am standing outside his room again, and this time he's crying. He knows I'm there, at least I think he does. His glasses are propped up on the side of the bed. His eyes are red and wet and angry. His fists are bunched tight. They remind me of tiny exploding planets.

'Dave,'

 

yeah

 

'Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it? Is there anything you need?'

 

nah

 

dad

 

i guess i messed up yeah

 

'Dave. You didn't mess up. I just wish we could have given you some advice first,

or help.

You want your child to be happy - their experiences: good, right, and perfect. But who has that kind of life? _We can't all lose our virginity in a threesome on a trampoline underneath the stars,_ so my first (kind of)boyfriend always bragged. Certainly my experiences have not always been good, for the right reasons or with the right person.

I'm not saying I agree with how you've been acting, you make me really scared sometimes, but maybe you need to lash out and make mistakes, maybe you can gain something from this, even if it feels wrong or it hurts.'

(He's so quiet.) 

 

'Dave...'

 

yeah

 

'I love you son, no matter what. I am here. Carlos is here. We are never going to leave you.'

 

(Gulp.)

 

yeah

 

i know

 

The night doesn't end with a hug, promises or 'Everything Is Fine.' But you do kiss him on the forehead after staring for (23 seconds, Carlos counts.) He doesn't look horrified; you hope he looks relieved. When you pull the curtains and leave him with the hall light on: you are terrified. When Carlos grabs your hand and squeezes: the world is slightly better, but you know things still aren't right.

You like to think about growth as a big, scary-cool, adventure, (together you are running, and fighting and biting to hold on tight!)

You will hold on to him as if to let go would break the world.

 

The whole world. 

* * *

In bed, Dave thinks about families, and about what makes you love a person. He thinks of the things you'll do for the people you don't care about. He thinks of the ways you'll hurt those who love you because you know they'll stay; because you are breaking apart; because you have to hurt something; because you have to test that love; because you have to be the strong one; because if they leave, you want it to be on _your terms_.

He tries not to cry. Crying is the worst thing.

He is not weak. He is not useless.

He deserves to be loved. He deserves to have a family.

 

Something keeps breaking in his head.

He is struggling to stay here.

 

He is struggling to accept _he can be okay, he deserves to be okay._

Something is breaking inside his head.

 

 


End file.
